


Learning Curve

by thepartwhere



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepartwhere/pseuds/thepartwhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Quinlan, the Master’s transgression was not difficult to predict. Training was in order—for a sun hunter loyal to their cause. Of course, as the Born well knew, the best-laid schemes often go awry. (In other words, "Before Gus, there was Emily.") Occurs 2 years before the events of The Strain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Curve

**Author's Note:**

> It's been years since I last wrote, so I don't know how to keep anything concise anymore. Or even write things. I'm sorry :( but Mr. Quinlan love has FORCED MY HAND
> 
> Just fyi: 'Sets' and 'chapters' refer to groups within one gang that don't necessarily get along (or have one unifying leader), whether it's because they operate within a different state, street or a different NYC borough (as in the case below). (See what I mean about not being concise? I suck)
> 
> Also! This is more of TV!Quinlan than book!Quinlan in that the former seems more easily amused at silly things (e.g. Gus threatening him while bound). (I personally love how book!Quinlan just overlooks a lot of Gus' crazy talk and treats him normally, but I'm also looking forward to how their dynamic will be played out in the show!) I'm stopping now before I continue gushing here. Hope you enjoy! (As much as can be enjoyed, anyway, since this is only one chapter and okshuttingupnow)

The men before him reeked of the carnal act and all manner of prohibited substances. Even now, close to midnight when it would be easiest, in an empty parking lot, and thirsty—he had not drunk in some time, and would have to seek proper sustenance soon—Mr. Quinlan had no desire to partake of them. Only one among them stood out to him: the oldest of the five who had come to the exchange, evidently more reserved than his companions. Though he bore a green patch on his person similar to the others, he watched Quinlan with a curiosity the hunter had sought and failed to find until this evening.

Their apparent leader, however, was their youngest. He motioned for the other two to furnish the arms as he inspected the rest of the suitcases Quinlan had brought with him. Flipping through the cash, he laughed. “You gonna use all this yourself, man?”

They couldn’t see it, but Quinlan eyed the guns presented to him with some disdain. Not the latest, not to mention that such firepower would be as ineffective as any antiquated weapon without his trained accuracy and precision. “That is not your concern,” he told them. He was pleased when the candidate winced—did he possess the intelligence to discern how his voice differed from theirs? Soon it would be determined. “This is enough,” he nodded.

“Good. Now get the rest of it,” said the boy, waving the cash and motioning for one of his companions to take the first suitcase filled with money.

Quinlan nodded, turning his back on them to take the remaining suitcases from the black SUV parked not far from them. When he faced them once more, they had drawn their machetes. He had heard them, of course, having learned quickly over these past few weeks that gangs had little in the way of subterfuge, and was, admittedly, disappointed. He’d had high hopes for this one.

“Sorry,” the boy grinned. “You didn’t actually think you could come here alone and get out with a fair deal, did you?” He glanced around to his friends for support. They all laughed. “ _Pendejo_.”

“I suppose not.”

Normally, he would unsheathe his own blade. Rarely did men use such weapons anymore, and the last skilled swordsman of this century, he had not seen in decades, but there was no time for it. Even before the usual sirens sounded the end of their meeting, Quinlan drew a pistol he had taken from one of the Cribs earlier that week and made quick work of the men. Immobilizing them only, this time, because these men seemed to dread arrest more than death. Walking around the groaning bodies and picking up his first suitcase, the hunter sighed. The Latin Sultans had disappointed him nights ago, as had the blue Cribs, and—countless others he had tested with the same set of money. None of them had impressed him, nor warranted a suitcase for further observation.

Three nights from now, he would schedule his last trial. If none passed before the week was over, he would agree to follow his masters’ suggestion and find a human who already possessed the required skill. Quinlan had doubts—human loyalty was better bred from the ground up—but he would have no choice if the last group failed him. He tried to recall their name as he left the scene, police cars thoughtlessly speeding past.

 _Ah_ , it clicked in his mind. _The_ _Bones_.

* * *

Beneath the shade of a BP station, a brunette leaning against her white van watched the gas pump meter with a blank stare. As if this pickup hadn’t taken her all night already, Marcus _had_ to go to the toilet this close to finishing the delivery. Gassing up had been a logical way to pass the time and a way to keep from getting restless and pissed.

Emily smiled at the attendant walking by, then cringed as she glanced into the rear-view mirror. The burning summer climate had frizzed her wavy hair to knots. Coupled with these eyebags, she thought almost humorously, she looked like she was twenty-six going on forty. Good thing that didn’t matter in her line of work.

The passenger door opened abruptly, almost making her lose her balance. Out climbed one of the two Bronx-set Bones she’d picked up with the shipment: Jerry, a big and bald brute all in black who fit exactly the thug stereotype she’d seen in reruns as a kid. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Jerry motioned to the convenience store next to the station. Marcus, his mousy-looking, shorter partner, approached them with a satisfied look and a cigarette in his mouth, even as she’d told him _no smoking_ in her van. “Your turn,” he said, giving Emily a slimy, head-to-toe-and-back grin. This guy couldn’t get any more cliché if he tried. “You too, driver. I know females have small bladders.”

 _Said the asshole who made us stop 8 blocks from delivery_ , she thought, but wordlessly removed the nozzle and slapped the van’s gas cap shut. “And I take it back—you can smoke in my van. Since you bought me some fuel.” Emily tossed something light at him.

Marcus caught it with some surprise and opened his hand curiously. His fuel card. How did she...? “Fuckin’...! Jerry—”

His partner’s bladder ignored him as Jerry followed Emily inside. She didn’t really have to go, and for all his chatter she was actually fine with the big guy, but she had to get away from that dumbass Marcus. Frank was always sending her out to collect shipments from different sets, and she was getting tired of it. Not that the Bones in Manhattan were any more polite, even on a good day—but they were generally more tolerable, and they were respectful for as long as she was on Frank’s good side.

Waving Jerry away as he sped for the bathroom, Emily waded through the junk food until she found what she was looking for near the cashier—a burger ready to be heated and eaten. Where had _this_ been all night? She’d forgotten how hungry she was. “I’ll take one of those, please,” she said, getting her wallet out of her jacket.

The cashier was starting on her order when two Puerto Ricans in loose polos strolled into the store with typical street swagger and the telltale green mark somewhere on their clothes. Patrians—or Trinis, depending on who you asked. Though puzzled, Emily glanced away, pretending to flip through some gossip magazine while she waited.

“Here you go,” the cashier said after a while, handing her the bag.

“Thank you,” she peered at his nametag. “Alex.”

The bathroom door shut, followed by Jerry’s slow lumbering. She heard him stop right as the Puerto Ricans did.

“Hey,” one of them said, dragging out his _y_ like a real tough guy. She guessed he was if he was bothering someone who looked like Jerry. “If it ain’t a _cuerpo_!”

The thug quirked a brow. “It’s _Bones_ , little man. Wrong translation, _nene_.”

Backing away, Alex the cashier started for the _employees only_ room, which Emily guessed was her cue. That and the Trini were flashing their pistols. Even they weren’t dumb enough to bring their machetes out in broad daylight. Quickly moving toward Jerry, she placed a hand on his arm and jerked her head toward the van. “We’re gonna be late. Come on.”

“Ooh,” the Trini giggled. “Didn’t know the _cuerpos_ brought their little whores around on jobs. Nice.”

Emily considered walking out on them for a moment before deciding _not_ to let it go. The graveyard shift coupled with traffic and Marcus’ bullshit on the way here had worn her down; and anyway, this wasn’t even their territory. “Rather be a whore for the Bones than a sucker for the _Latrines_.”

“It’s _Trini_ , bitch.”

“Really?” Jerry laughed, brushing past Emily to tower over them. “Heard you guys got caught in an arms bust a few nights ago. Cops shittin’ all over your operation. Latrines sounds about right. Right?” He nudged Emily.

She nodded obligingly. All the same, it was 10 A.M. on a Monday and it wasn’t the time for this. She told them as much—“Not to mention this place is bugged with cameras. So how about we all settle down?”

Trinis were known for being easily riled, and violent—moreso than the Bones—so they ignored her. “That’s it—”

Emily would have gone for her piece too if another car hadn’t just pulled up by the station: police, unaffiliated by the looks of it. Convenient. The men followed her gaze and eased up, settling for cracking knuckles or stretching their necks instead. Emily had been over this posturing nonsense for about a few years now, but she glared alongside Jerry all the same.

“You got lucky,” said the Trini.

“Yeah. Lucky,” Jerry sneered. “You’ll be hearin’ from the Bones soon. This ain’t your neighborhood.”

Emily returned the officers’ suspicious glances with a smile as they exited and returned to the van, where Jerry angrily told Marcus about what happened. They wanted to stay, wait for the officers to leave to ‘finish it.’ She refused, obviously. Frank won’t be happy about any delays, she told them. Not that they cared, since he wasn’t their boss, but she was driving. So she drove on.

* * *

The headquarters of the Bones’ Manhattan set looked like an office. With stark white lights and a big storeroom in the basement for supplies, the building was even divided into offices by department: public relations, human relations, operations (where Emily belonged), finance and accounting, sales and marketing, and administration. The last was at the top floor of the building—boss Frank Kinsley’s office was at the end of the hall, with a pretty secretary taking his calls, too.  The neat little corporate structure was his idea—except, of course, that business was all about sex, drugs, and arms trafficking. And business was booming. 

Frank Kinsley fancied himself an intellectual, setting himself apart from his subordinates not only by his speech but also in his manner of dress: a full suit, always, unless it was summer, in which case the suit came off. He was handsome, a man’s man type with the face and body to prove it, being a boxer in his free time. But what gave him the most pride was his college degree—it was out of the depth of most of his subordinates. Among all the stories they told of him, his favorite was how his predecessor had groomed him to take over the Manhattan set since high school; how he’d tried to turn away from the life, only to realize that he was meant to accept it. Most of their recruits lapped it up and sealed their membership with a kill. Or two.

It was a busy morning for Frank. A lot of kids these days thought belonging to the Bones was all about kicking ass and taking names without taking responsibility. He didn’t like it, but even worse were the cases when _grown men_ continued to spread such a destructive mentality. It hurt him. Literally. His knuckles were bruising trying to teach one of their dealers who’d gotten too liberal with his own merchandise a lesson.

He let up for a moment, shaking his fist and standing over the man. “One thing about the Bones, Simon.” He paused. “It’s Simon, isn’t it?”

The man nodded, bruised arms lifting to cover his bleeding face. That was fine, but he really preferred that they looked him in the eye. Didn’t they see that he was trying to instill in them the proper work ethic required to succeed in this field? Maybe he was just cranky because he hadn’t had lunch yet.

Frank nodded. “Okay, Simon. We have great benefits here. Ask Sophia—even the women we treat very well. You won’t find another group like this outside the Bones—or even within another set. Right?”

A pretty, dark-skinned woman shrinking into the corner of his office straightened herself and nodded, trying not to look at Simon. “...Yes. Everyone is treated with respect.”

“Yes! That’s my girl. Exactly,” said Frank. “ _Respect_. But that’s only” –without warning, he swung his foot into his side– “as long” –kicked it deeper– “as you’re not” –until the man turned over on his back– “on the take!”

While Simon lay still, cringing at Frank’s every move and apologizing incoherently, the boss breathed heavily, regaining his composure and wiping the sweat from his brow with an expensive handkerchief. He sighed, waving two of his bodyguards into his office. “Mr. Stills and I have come to an agreement. Take him to Human Relations downstairs and let him rest. I’m sure they’ll have no problem ensuring his compliance with our rules this time.”

When they were alone in the room, Frank remorsefully turned to Sophia. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, opening his arms to her.  “Some of them just don’t get how we work. Nick trusted me to keep the business going, and it can’t operate when some cogs just refuse to fit.”

Sophia wasted no time rushing into his embrace, and Frank didn’t notice her hesitation to wrap her arms around him in return. She was his girlfriend, after all—they both worked very hard, and shared the understanding that they were meant for each other. He knew she loved his company, too, which was why he allowed her not to work in the day, apart from the rest of her colleagues.

“I understand,” she said quietly, eyes downcast. “But, um, Frank...will you think about what I said?”

Frank stiffened, and Sophia felt his jaw clench against her temple. It surprised her when he only released her with a nod, leaning down to plant a kiss on her neck. “Yes, I’ll think about it.”

Their moment was interrupted by a knock on the door. Sophia’s heels clacked as she ran to get it, and a woman in denims and an innocuous floral jacket made her way inside. She sent a smile Sophia’s way—they’d been friends since middle school—and nodded at Frank, eyes only briefly grazing the drops of blood on the otherwise spotless floor.

“Hello, Em. We were just talking about you,” Frank said curtly, rounding his large mahogany desk to reach his seat. It was wholly out of place with the soulless corporate vibe Frank wanted to give off. Sophia told Emily once that her boyfriend must just have watched too many of those old Al Pacino movies. “Sit down.”

Emily ignored his terseness with a polite smile.  “It’s fine, Frank—”

“For one of my most _industrious_ Bones, I insist.”

The brunette tried to keep on her smile as she took the seat. She’d rather not sit any closer to the man than she had to, especially since she’d seen the latest HR case on the way up. That happened about twice or thrice a month usually, but it was only the second week of July and it was already the third. Either Frank’s associates were getting lax or the recruits weren’t getting the right orientation speeches (as he liked to call them).

“The shipment’s in,” Emily started with the obvious. “They’re depositing it downstairs.”

“Good, good,” Frank nodded. “Were there any problems? Did the Bronx set treat you well?”

“One was fine, the other an asshole,” she answered. “Nothing serious, though. We, uh, ran into some Patrians gassing up over along upper Avenue C.”

Frank frowned at that. “What were they doing all the way out there? We haven’t seen Trinis in the area since...what...”

“Since we started,” Sophia piped in, almost squeaked. “Nick drove them out right when Em and I...”

Her boyfriend’s eyes lit up as he turned to her. “Oh, of course. How could I forget?”

“Yeah,” said Emily. “I hear a new chapter’s sprung up in Manhattan. Trying to set up shop back here is what the Bronx guys told me. Said the Queens set mentioned the same thing, but the Brooklyn guys haven’t been talking to any of us lately.”

“...And?”

“And nothing,” answered Emily. “Police arrived before anything happened. _Left_ before anything happened.”

“I see. Don’t worry yourself about that, Em. We’ll keep the territory Nick generously carved out for us. What _does_ worry me is the question of why you would ever want to leave us when we’re like a family here.”

Emily tried not to sit back when he leaned forward over his desk, but she couldn’t help it. She’d asked Sophia to put in a good word for her about taking some time off to apply for other work—real work—but she hadn’t known that Sophia had already asked. “It’s not that,” she muttered. “It’s just some time off.”

Frank only shook his head with disappointment. “But you're one of my best drivers, Em. Nick trained you himself.”

“It’s really not that,” she insisted. “I’m a woman. Cops are less apprehensive of me driving by.”

“Exactly!” He pointed at her like she’d remembered the winning lottery numbers even as he made no sense. “But—just think, Emily. Who’s going to keep my Sophia company? Little Joe? While you’re at...” he snickered, “what, Kohl’s? And for how much?”

Emily unconsciously gnawed on her cheek. “Sears,” she muttered. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t applied...”

Frank clicked his tongue. “And here I thought you cared about the Bones.”

“I do!” Emily frowned, meeting his gaze. “I just can’t keep—” She huffed, glancing away before she finished that thought. “Forget it.”

But Frank caught it and laughed. “Oh. No, no. I get it. Em wants a _career job_ now, does she? Didn’t you try that before? Nick said you couldn’t make it work.”

Emily resented how often he brought Nick into the conversation when he wanted things done his way. Sophia had been the one to tell her about the Bones when she’d been unable to keep up with life anymore, but it was Nick, the former leader of the Manhattan set, who’d trained her when it was clear her talents were different from Sophia’s. He had also been Frank’s godfather. There was no winning when Frank played this card. 

“Look, I’ll do the jobs,” Emily sighed. “I’ll do them until you can find someone else. Someone better. That won’t be hard.”

“We’ll see. Sophia, can you give us a minute?”

Having stood at Frank’s side, Sophia nodded and left the office for her desk—she was his secretary in the day—right outside. As soon as the door clicked behind her, Frank reared toward Emily with an unhappy expression.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Em. You knew coming in that you couldn’t get out. You’re one of my best transporters and you’re not a bad shot. I don’t want you putting these ideas into Sophia’s head again. Do you understand?”

Emily nodded wordlessly. Frank smiled, then reached over and gave her cheek a condescending pat—as though his tone hadn’t been enough. “Hey, Em. Cheer up. I got a new job for you—big payout, too."

Pretending to tie her hair in order to pull away, she asked, “What is it?”

There was a new buyer in the city, and he wanted the entire shipment Emily had just delivered late that evening. Not only that—he wanted the exchange in Brooklyn. It was like the guy didn’t even know how gang sets scattered across the boroughs worked. Normally Frank would have said no outright, but he’d offered such a ‘hefty price’ that Frank couldn’t pass it up. With all that money and the way he’d spoken, according to Sophia, he figured the buyer was from the Upper East and could eventually serve as their liaison there. Either way, he was sending _her_ again because she was his liaison with the other sets.

“You know Brooklyn has the worst Bones,” Emily protested. “They might not listen to me. Besides, _liaison_ or not, this is a PR job. I’m a delivery girl, not a negotiator.”

“You’re not a good shot for nothing,” Frank smiled. “But I trust you can keep them in line without completely severing our already sour relationship with the Brooklyn set. And think of this as a promotion! That _is_ what you want.”

Emily wanted to show him how point blank range never made for a bad shot, but only gave a crooked smile. Nick had chosen him to succeed the leadership role for a reason, she reminded herself—that and he packed a devastating punch when he wanted to. “All right.”

“If this goes well, he’ll source exclusively from us. So don’t screw this up, Em.” His face contorted into a smile. “Any more questions?”

“Yeah. Buyer got a name?”

Frank held up an index finger, making her wait as he scrolled through his phone. This must have been one of those calls Sophia had taken. “Here. Hmm.” He looked up at her, showing her the note his girlfriend made, and Sophia never made mistakes.

Emily nodded and refrained from sighing as she walked out of the office. She had serious doubts about this exchange. What kind of wannabe gangster called himself Q?

* * *

To outsiders wandering the area, the sight of a woman standing idly outside PS 34 might have been odd, but Emily was a familiar one to those who lived in the neighborhood—she was there to pick up Joe, Sophia’s ten year-old son by her high school boyfriend who’d refused to acknowledge him or give support. Tim had disappeared as soon as Frank realized that he loved Sophia. 

To that end, picking Joe up wasn’t as much for his safety as it was the other children—especially the ones who thought the scrawny kid was fair game. Frank was fiercely protective of anything Sophia loved—except for Emily, who was filed under his compartmentalized ‘corporate’ system as an employee rather than Sophia’s best friend—and often sent warnings to parents to keep their children behaved.

Not that Joe didn’t have friends, but Frank felt that unsupervised time after school was better spent with Emily (when she could) than with children who would influence him ‘the wrong way.’ Emily didn’t mind, even if she didn’t subscribe to that brand of philosophy. Joe was a smart kid, if not precocious at times, but that was a good thing. Hopefully he’d know enough to choose a different route than what Frank clearly intended.

The school’s ugly seafoam green doors swung open and closed as swarms of children filed out noisily, some intent on walking home at once while others hung around to chat with their friends. Most of the kids were used enough to her presence to ignore her, and any other unsavory character in the area would know her to be an ally or someone to similarly steer clear of—the Bones tattoo on the side of her neck was visible whenever she wore her hair in a ponytail walking around the neighborhood.

Eventually, a young boy with his mother’s light brown eyes walked outside with a woman whose pin straight hair fell to her shoulders. Joe’s homeroom teacher, with whom Joe was so caught up in conversation that she’d had to guide him toward Emily. “Good afternoon, Ms. Preiss,” the woman greeted.

“Hi,” Emily nodded. The only time she came outside with Joe was when something regrettable had happened. “Something wrong?”

“Joe,” she nudged her student, “why don’t you tell Ms. Preiss?”

Joe flashed her his father’s brilliant smile. “Em, the school picked _me_ to represent it in MOEMS!”

Seeing Emily’s confusion, his homeroom teacher explained, “It’s a math competition. A few students are chosen to participate from each year, and Joe is one of the 4th grade representatives. Ms. Mason should be very proud. And, obviously, um...” she paused, and Emily pretended to overlook her hesitation. “Mr. Kinsley, too.”

“I just like Math,” Joe said, scratching his chin in embarrassment. “I mean, I know you said you hated it, Em, but it’s really fun!”

Emily’s face flushed as she cleared her throat. Even after she’d dropped out of high school to take care of Joe, Sophia had still tried to help Emily get through senior year math. It was pretty brutal. She’d only ever been good at history. It really figured that she was best at a subject involving dead people. “Well, I am just your godmother. You really take after your mom,” she replied after a pause. His teacher gave her an understanding smile when their eyes met. “Anyway, congrats, kid! How about a burger?”

Joe waved goodbye to his homeroom teacher, who’d figured it was the right time to leave them to their privacy, then turned to Emily in confusion. “But last week you said you’d never eat another burger again.”

She did recall saying that after eating two-and-a-half burgers in succession, but that was the past. “I obviously wasn’t thinking straight. So I say celebratory burgers, my treat. I have lots of change from work this morning.”

Joe looked thoughtful at that, and Emily wondered for a moment if he’d caught on even just a little of what Frank’s business was really all about—but then he nodded with a grateful smile. “Okay. Thanks, Em.”

* * *

Emily yawned, sniffing and blinking away sleepy tears as she drove to the exchange site. Between dropping Joe off with Frank, making a few more deliveries, and meeting up with the Brooklyn guys, there had been no time for naps. She really was underpaid these days. The Brooklyn-set Bones had sent three of their men with the shipment just to make sure the Manhattan Bones weren’t moving in on their territory—and to prove that, they were to divide the earnings 4:3 in favor of Frank, since it was a Manhattan shipment. They were close now—it was in some pier she wasn’t familiar with, so Tag, the most talkative of the three, directed her as she drove. 

“What can you tell me about this Q guy?”

“Not much,” said Tag, gruffly. “Same as what your man Frank told you, most like. Small purchase, big money.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

They stopped when a dock worker flagged them down, only to let them pass—one of their guys. From behind the open window separating the front seats and the hatch, Tag shot Emily a funny look. “Not more than _you_ ,” he grunted in reply, then continued. “Lots of buyers lately. You hear about that Trini bust three nights ago? Happened in the middle of an exchange.”

“You don’t think...”

“Don’t think what?” Tag shot a meaty hand through the window and pointed at a particularly wide spot between crates. “There, is that him?”

Emily shook her head _never mind_ , finding a spot to park close to where he’d pointed but far enough to make an easy escape, then getting out and unlocking the door for her assigned friends for the night. It was cold this close to the river even in July, but that wasn’t the only reason she was wearing gloves. “Get the bags, let’s go.”

“Bring your own bag, bitch,” one of Tag’s friends sneered. He tossed her a duffel bag filled with the packed stuff.

Emily caught it, giving a stern look in reply. “Watch your mouth, Brooklyn. Don’t know how it works in your chapter, but Mr. Kinsley doesn’t have time for your set-tripping shit. I’m calling the shots ‘cause this is _our_ supply. So do you want to settle this here or can we move the fuck on?”

He was prepared to lunge, but Tag shoved him backward, murmuring something to quiet him. “Bitch,” the ass muttered anyway.

Emily went ahead, sighing inwardly, not that she’d ever admit to having been frightened of anyone. That and smack talk was an effort at this level of exhaustion. As much as she hated running to Frank for help to handle the idiots he made her deal with, even without his knowledge, his name worked. At thirty-six, he was the youngest Bones leader across the five boroughs, his strength and ruthlessness well-known.

They hoofed it to where Tag had spotted the silver suitcase screaming _money_ before he’d noticed the waiting ‘Q’—all in black, with a hood up and a mask over his nose and mouth, his black Hummer parked not far from him. This guy did _not_ know what he was doing. They could shoot his tires flat if they wanted to. Emily shook her head in irritation, eyes flitting to Q, ready to goad the Brooklyn guys to pile on the intimidating smack talk and get this deal over with. As soon as she turned to glare at him, though, she blinked in alarm and glanced at her watch—her go-to action to be able to school her features, or have a reason to look surprised.

For a moment there, she thought she’d seen his eyes flash underneath his hood.

“Mr. Q, right?” she asked, shaking off the nerves as she approached, focusing on the suitcases sitting next to his Hummer. She was just tired; staying up past 24 hours, even on coffee and energy drinks, probably had that effect on everyone. Joe had read to her once that that made people hallucinate. “You should know: Bones don’t trade with faceless goons. Little rude, don’t you think? Why don’t you lower the mask? The hood, too. It’s only polite.”

“This will do,” was his answer.

Emily glanced from side to side, searching each of her companions’ faces. Was she the only one hearing that? It might have been the mask muffling his words, or maybe that surprising English accent, but it was almost like his voice was—echoing, or something. Like it lingered in her head a beat longer than it should have. She was going right to bed after this.

When she came to her senses, one of Tag’s lackeys was already doing the necessary posturing. “You heard her,” he boomed. “Take off the hood.”

“It’s fine,” said Emily, raising a hand to stop him, well-aware that the only reason he didn’t slap her hand off and break her fingers was to show solidarity as Bones. Her gaze fell back to their buyer. “You come alone, Mr. Q? How do I know this isn’t some police scheme? Innocent girl like me from the projects, looking to make a quick buck, scrounging around for a couple elbows to sell some big buyer who came out of thin air... That’d be entrapment.”

The man was either unfazed or simply rooted to his spot—he didn’t even shift his weight to either leg. Most guys started to, at this point—or at least that was what she’d learned from standing as backup for Nick, or any of Frank’s PR guys. “If I were an officer of the law,” he replied, “I wouldn’t have known to contact Mr. Kinsley directly. Do you or do you not possess the order?”

Tag leaned close and whispered, “He’s alone. We can shoot the car out, take the rest of his suitcases. Easy money.”

Emily ignored him, though it was a tempting plan. There was something different about this guy—almost creepy, or it could have been everything else today and her mind screwing with her and keeping her on edge. “Let’s be fair, Mr. Q. You and me, bags down on three.”

Q nodded as she counted and he crouched beside her, setting down his silver steel suitcase and flipping the latches while she unzipped the duffel bag. Behind her, the other Bones watched eagerly. Buyer and seller inspected the cash and the packages. As far as Emily could tell, it was all real. Maybe he really was just naive.

Shutting the suitcase and rising to her feet, she extended a hand to him, trying not to look too curious about his hood. It was pulled far too forward over his head for any light to show her his face. “Seems like a fair exchange to me,” she decided. “I have a few more questions, but I can tell you that we’re already looking forward to more of your business.”

Q accepted her handshake, but before the heat of his palm through his thick gloves registered with Emily, he pulled back. She frowned. “Mr. Q—”

She heard their Glocks, then, behind her. Tag aimed at Q, the second at her, and the last one shifted between either of them. This time, she couldn’t hide her bewilderment. “What the _fuck_?”

“It seems your men bear no loyalty to you,” said Q.

“Technically, they’re not _my_ men.” The nature of their plan dawned on Emily as she corrected the nosy stranger. To the Bones, she said, “Tag. Come on. Louis know you’re doing this to Frank?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tag grinned smugly. “Been waiting for a chance to stick it to that cocky piece of shit _and_ the rest of the Bones. But the boss wants Manhattan first. Lower his guard by tellin’ him his cute liaison planned a stupid stunt with this Q dumbass. Screwed _us_ over. Put him on the defensive.”

Emily tried to keep her cool even as she felt the cold sweat rising from her back. This wasn’t the first time she’d been held at gunpoint, but it was the first without anyone who had her back. At least before she’d had someone to hold out with while they waited for allies. Now it was just her and this poor sucker, and no one was coming for them.

“Good luck with that,” she said almost too slowly, eyes darting around the environment, desperate to find something to distract them to give her enough time to draw her pistol. There was the suitcase, the duffel bag, _their_ duffel bags, and Q’s car. And Q, but she didn’t know this guy. “Frank knows better than that.” She wasn’t actually sure that he did.

“Do you have a plan,” Q asked her all of a sudden, really close to her ear, “or do you intend to talk them down?”

“Quiet, I’m trying,” she muttered, jerking away from him, but he hadn’t moved an inch. Great. They were about to have lead for a midnight snack and her depth perception was going to hell.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” Tag yelled. “Don’t move. We’ll take the money, and I’ll let you off with _one_ bullet. Sound good to you?”

“You waste too much time dwelling on a course of action. Act,” Q demanded.

Who _was_ this guy? “I said shut up!” Emily hissed. “Listen, Tag—”

“Noisy bitch,” Tag’s friend grunted, approaching and levelling his pistol to her face, pushing it against her forehead as he spat angrily. “Didn’t Kinsley teach you how to use that mouth?”

“Show her,” the other laughed.

Falling to her knees, Emily begged in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “Okay, just, whatever you want. Just please don’t kill me!”

The friend looked surprised, but was too eager to notice anything unusual. He was in the middle of removing his belt when the police sirens roared to life not far from the docks. The Brooklyn-set Bones yelped in shock, and that was Emily’s cue to reach for the guy’s gun. Grabbing it while he fumbled to keep his belt on, she stepped on his shoe and had this brilliant plan to aim between his legs, but he was already out of sight by the time she looked up. That was when she saw struggling from the corner of her eye—Q was breaking the guy’s neck after a takedown so quick she hadn’t even heard it.  _Wow._

Tag cursed along with his other lackey and began to fire. Instinctively, Emily lifted hers and the dead guy’s duffel bag and swung them over her shoulders for protection. Then, shooting wildly at them to cover herself and hoping for lucky headshots, she made a break for the van.

“Get the suitcase! The suitcase!” Tag shouted, but his companion had fallen, too busy screaming about the bullets that had grazed his balls to pay any real attention. Left to carry out the job himself, Tag swept forward and dashed for Q’s car, only to be tackled to the ground by what he thought a truck might feel like. His head spun, and his vision returned to reveal Q’s face—he had one ugly mug—his mouth was opening real wide, like he was yawning. 

“Hey, Q!” Emily reappeared from the crates behind them, almost stumbling over herself to reach him in time and glancing back every so often. “They’re close,” she warned him, panic and adrenaline allowing her to miss the sight of him pinning down a man of his prey’s considerable size as she collected Tag’s duffel bag. “Listen,” she panted, “I’ll give you one of these for a suitcase. Decide. _Now_!”

Quinlan’s grip on the brute’s shoulder tightened, nearly crushing his bones, but he was in control despite the lulling thrum of their anxious heartbeats. “Very well,” he agreed, on his feet in what would have been a flash for the woman. He ripped the worthless duffel bag from her grasp so swiftly that he might have torn her arm off, and glanced back to ensure that he hadn’t. Leaving his suitcase on the ground for her to pick up, he headed for the Hummer before he was tempted to drink of either of them any further.

Foot on the gas, he caught the woman firing a fatal shot at her traitorous companions against the rear-view mirror before he made a sharp turn at a row of crates and fled the vicinity. She had kept to the arranged deal in spite of their goading, responded satisfactorily to the betrayal (an extraneous factor, but one that had proven a fine gauge) as well as to the arrival of the authorities, and had the capacity to take life, though perhaps unnecessarily—as with the Tag character, _who would have been filling_ , Quinlan belatedly thought.

In any case, she’d had the presence of mind to note and react to his voice, however violently, but the bravado could be done away with if determined to be unnecessary. Perhaps he would be more lenient in that regard. She was, after all, a young woman among vicious men, though such an attribute posed neither an advantage nor a hindrance to the task at hand.

 _Yes_ , Quinlan made the decision then. _The woman will do_.

**Author's Note:**

> Did that make any sense? Please forgive me in advance formy crappy AO3-ing (it's my first time here) and mistakes and annoying running sentences and also my pacing is going to be off because I only have very general ideas about what's going to happen. But Mr. Quinlan love demands it so I will try!
> 
> (Obviously, more Mr. Quinlan in the next chapter. Just had to set Emily's situation up.)
> 
> *08/22/2015: Edited a bit to fit the 'real' Mr. Quinlan of the TV show.


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